


Gossamer

by dollishdrag



Category: Marvel (Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Action & Romance, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Canon Continuation, Developing Relationship, Eventual Romance, F/M, POV Alternating, Past Character Death, Unofficial Sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-17 19:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2320523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollishdrag/pseuds/dollishdrag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Peter can’t remember the last time they walked home together from anything. He’s sure he was wearing light up sneakers, carrying a backpack full of addition and subtraction homework, and Mary Jane had multicolored bows in her hair, sporting kittens on her neon t-shirt. It’s kind of surreal, to walk with her now. A woman in a diner uniform, a hero with a mask in his backpack. They’re worlds away from where they used to be." - A year after Gwen Stacy's death, Gossamer explores how Mary Jane and Peter fell in love amidst a backdrop of villains preparing to take Spider-man down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collaborative fanfiction written by outlawsdoctor & feliciahardy of tumblr. Mia/dollishdrag (outlawsdoctor) will primarily voice the Mary Jane chapters while Melanie/Melness (feliciahardy) will primarily write the Peter chapters.

Mary Jane Watson is stubborn. For instance: when her hair tie breaks, she very meticulously ties the rubbery ends together in an eye drop knot and continues to use it instead of getting a new one. When she's locked out of the house (as she has been many times), she shimmies through the thumb-sized kitchen window instead of going next door to fetch the spare – the one that May kept safe for her. And when her boss asks her to stick around for the graveyard shift? Knowing that she'd have to walk twelve blocks, alone, in the peaking dangerous hours of the New York City night afterward?

 _Stubborn_.

Well, MJ thought she was tough enough – of course she did. But even with her warm, black pea-coat wrapped around her diminishing torso (she likes the term _starving_ _artist_ , but the fact remained that she really is just poor and very starving), she shivers in the late November air after her shift ends. It bites and nibbles at the exposed parts of her ivory skin, but not nearly enough to be the cause of the nervous tremors down her spine. The city streets are too... quiet. She can hear each clack of her healed boots against the sidewalk, each shaking breath she pulls into her constricted lungs. Anxiety. _This isn't safe._ She knows it isn't safe, and she would've refused the offer earlier, had her pockets not been horrendously empty after her recent head shot purchases.

MJ needed a full portfolio – something that made her seem more _professional_ in acting auditions, instead of "Hi, I'm Mary Jane Watson, a no one from no where who's been in absolutely nothing. Pick me?". So, she'd sacrificed what little cash she'd had to get them, and begged for whatever extra shifts she could pick up at the diner – even the ones that no one else wanted (graveyards, specifically). And with May busy with her new hospital work, MJ no longer had a walking/subway buddy to one up the safe factor.

She'd seen Peter Parker in the diner earlier, as she usually did once or twice every few weeks. When she saw him today, it was only an hour before MJ's shift ended, too, which would have mattered in an alternative universe – one in which friendships stayed firmly in tact. She almost asked him to wait for her tonight, to walk her home – like they were still ten years old, holding hands to go down to the school bus stop in Queens. _Almost_. But, instead, her words had caught in her throat, much like they had the day of Gwen Stacy's dark and sudden funeral. Over a year ago now, wasn't it?

And so MJ didn't ask him. And Peter didn't say hello. And MJ didn't say goodbye when he finished his coffee, slinging a backpack over his shoulder and sweeping out of the restaurant. He didn't look back through the glass panels to look at her, as MJ always looked out at him. Maybe he was too preoccupied. Too busy. Too uninterested.

Just like always.

" _What the hell do you know about it, MJ? Get out of here,_ now _."_ He'd yelled at her, two days after Gwen's funeral. But MJ hadn't left at his request; how could she have ever left him there to set himself on fire, even if she scorched what little she had left of herself in the process? Instead of relenting, she just sat in complete silence on his bedroom floor with him, and while he broke things and cried and cursed at her – she didn't leave. It'd been the last time they'd communicated with one another, and still, regardless of Peter's distance, she was glad she'd never left that night.

It was something. Even if they are nothing but passing ships now.

MJ hears a few alarming shattering sounds in the distance, so she focuses her attention on counting the blackened slabs of gum carelessly stuck to the ground instead of watching her surroundings. It'd become a sort of coping mechanism – to shut it all out and zero in on something mind numbing and insignificant. Like when her father got drunk, or the auditions turned into "constructive criticism" battles on her height, hair, weight, voice, skin, or mannerisms. If her mind is numb and preoccupied enough, maybe she won't hate herself so much in the morning.

"Hey, little red." The voice is arrogant, snarling, and directed towards her back. MJ doesn't dare turn around to regard it – she quickens her pace, and keeps counting. _Thirty nine... Forty... Forty one..._

"We're talking to _you_ , bitch." A different voice. Quickening footsteps, following her. _Faster MJ_. _Forty five, forty six, forty seven, forty eight._

MJ immediately drops her purse to the sidewalk, surrendering the very small amount of money she has left. She'd read an article once that said if you just give it up immediately, you can avoid an altercation – especially for preyed upon females. Throw what they're probably after away from your body, let them give up their pursuit to fetch it, and run. So, MJ begins to run as fast as she can.

And she hears the footsteps run after her. _Oh, God._

Panicking, MJ finally takes in her surroundings, searching for a safe haven. No shops open, no bodies occupying the streets, nothing. The full car lot that she's quickly coming up on sparks her intuition – maybe someone is still sitting in their car, or she can set off one of the alarms to at least wake someone up or get attention. She breaks into a dead sprint for the lot, purposely bumping into every vehicle she can in the hopes that something will happen.

Nothing does. She catches her hip at a strange angle on a Honda, and topples over onto the blacktop.

"Grab her!" MJ hears one of them say, and she rolls over on her stomach, desperately clambering to get away from them before he makes good on the other's demand. That is when a steel toed boot connects to her rib cage. MJ begins to scream frantically, begging, _praying_ that someone will hear her. Someone will come, won't they? This can't be how she dies. This can't be it.

" _Shut up_ , bitch!" One of them hoists her to her feet as another slaps her across the mouth, hard. She tastes the coppery metallic of blood right before he hits her again, this time getting her square in the temple. Her vision blurs and blacks, but she recovers quickly, focusing. She needs to stay alert, she needs to keep fighting. She's used to getting slapped around a good bit because of her drunk father, but when the two men begin tearing at her coat and clothing, a new fear rises bile in the back of her throat. This is _not_ something she is used to. _Oh God, please. Please no._ MJ screams again, a sound of pure horror, as she kicks and punches recklessly and aimlessly at their bodies. They'd gotten her coat off and tore off three of her waitress uniform buttons.

And then he is there, swinging from a building. _Spider-man_.

It happens very quickly. A blur of red and blue, groans and grunts, webbing sprouted and tangled, restricting MJ's unconscious assailants against the pavement. She watches with wonder in her eyes, sitting beside her ruined coat and panting – shocked and... amazed. She could be dead, or so much worse. She could have been violated. She could have been...

"Are you alright?" Spider-man finally regards her, holding out his hands with his palms up. MJ can tell by the slow way he walks towards her that he's trying not to scare her – she probably looks like a wild animal; green eyes wide, small body shaking, blood trickling from her lip.

"I'm..." She tries to speak, but it comes out a raspy whisper. She doesn't know how she is, really. Her chest feels tight and it hurts to breathe – something has to be wrong with her ribs. But, besides her aching body, it feels surreal. She's in a state of indecipherable shock, body frozen onto the lot beneath her. She'd been seconds from something heinous, _seconds_ , and now? Spider-man is standing above her, the truest symbol of nonchalant heroism. Had he even broken a sweat, defending her honor?

"Bleeding," he finishes for her, holding out his gloved hand for her to take. MJ hesitates, distrusting on principle, but takes it anyway. It is _Spider-man_ , after all. He very carefully pulls her to her wobbling feet, both of them standing face to masked face. She'd never been this close to Spider-man before; it's strange, to see him as a person instead of some masked vigilante. He's real, he's tangible. He's breathing, speaking he just saved her life.

He saved her.

"What hurts? I think I should take you to the hospital," He reaches out to touch the blood on her lip, but when MJ flinches from him, he drops his hand. He doesn't let the moment stay awkward, though – he tries again. "Hasn't anyone ever told you to use the buddy system?" he adds, a smile in his voice, though MJ can't see it. He sounds so familiar, like she'd heard him speak before. Maybe she had.

MJ lets out a breathy laugh. "Aren't _you_ New York's buddy system?"

He takes a dramatic bow. "Just your friendly neighborhood, Mary Jane."

MJ furrows her eyebrows. "How did you know my..."

"Name tag." He points to the badge pinned to her ruined uniform.

"Oh, right," MJ looks down at it, noticing how exposed she really is now. The missing buttons have left her chest bare, the top of her white lacy bra peeking out. She pushes the fabric together, trying to cover herself.

Spider-man shoots webbing from his wrist, retrieving her coat and flinging it into his hands. "Here." He says, pulling it over her shoulders. It's torn in a few places and some of the buttons are missing, but MJ feels better with it draped across her. She tries not to think about how much she'd paid for it.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it," he shrugs. "So, how about a ride to the hospital? Think you can make the trip?"

MJ smirks at him. "Don't tell me that Spider-man has a spider-mobile."

"Nah, I prefer the Tarzan lifestyle," he sarcastically teases her, and MJ realizes just how young Spider-man has to be. He can't be much older than her, can he? His voice is so young, so lightly playful. "Do you mind heights? Or, you know, carelessly swinging from building to building?"

"I think... I'll be okay. But, no hospitals. No insurance..." She trails off a bit awkwardly, clearing her throat as she averts her eyes to the black leather of her boots. "'Sides, my Aunt – I mean, my neighbor, is kind of a nurse. I can ask her to take a look at me tomorrow, free of charge. You know, when the vampires and ghouls aren't out to play."

He gives her the satisfaction of a chuckle, and MJ smiles in response. There's something very honest about his laughter, like he doesn't just hand it out for free. "What are you doing out here so late, anyway?" He has such an easy way of being personable, something MJ has never quite mastered.

"Late shift. I work at a 24 hour diner. Not exactly glamorous, but I need something to put in my purse," and then MJ groans, remembering her failed surrender. "Which, I guess means nothing now. I tried to give it up in hopes that they'd just take it and go. Turns out they weren't after..." She trails off again, a horrified tremor shaking her spine.

"No one to walk you? Not a coworker?" He asks her. "A diner regular that you trust, maybe?"

"No."

"No one?"

"No one," MJ reiterates, pushing wildfire hair out of her eyes. A nervous habit.

Spider-man pauses, regarding her for a second. It's perplexing – maybe that's why she's so nervous now. She isn't sure what he's trying to decide, but it seems that he'd made up his mind when he speaks again. "Can I put my arm around you, Mary Jane? Just here?"

MJ takes a breath, regards him carefully, and then finally, she nods. She has to trust him now – after all, he's the most trusted man in New York City (unless you believe J. Jonah Jameson). If she can't trust him, who can she trust? He very tentatively puts an arm around her middle, pulling her in close to him. He smells like wind and city streets, and a tinge of soap that makes her feel comforted, oddly enough. He's human, underneath the red and blue spandex. Someone capable of hatred, violence, and sinister maliciousness. Yet here he is, holding onto her like a balloon string – delicately, like she'll float away any moment.

She has a feeling she's about to, anyway.

"Hold on," he mumbles, before shooting a web up high, higher than she can see, and then they're off like lightning. Soaring into the late New York City air, MJ is breathless, emerald eyes wide and mouth ghastly slacken. It's exhilarating, it's terrifying. It's beautiful, the skyscraper lights sparkling like a thousand colored stars below her boots, and the city sounds so small – like echoes of a distant world she no longer belongs to. She holds on to him tighter as they swing from the buildings, bodies flinging and swaying with the gusts. It's hard to get used to the snapping sensation, when one swing ends and another begins. She supposes Spider-man has a lot of practice.

On the way there, he shoots a web to the ground and flings something small and rectangular back up to their bodies. It's MJ's purse. She clutches it in the hand that drapes around Spider-man's neck, smiling warmly to herself. He'd saved her purse.

She shouts her address to him (shouting seemed necessary), and it feels like no time at all that she's on her front walkway, windblown and knees shaking with the free falling style of flight. MJ supposes they weren't that far to begin with, anyway – not in flying standards, at least.

"Anybody home?" he immediately asks her, slowly and gently releasing her frame.

"Not tonight. I'm sure my dad is... out," she chooses, instead of _drunk off his ass with his head smothered against a bar_.

"Do you need help up the stairs? Can I get you anything?" Spider-man trails after her a bit gallantly as she walks towards her home, arms folded over her ribcage. It aches and feels tight in all the wrong places. Something _has_ to be wrong there.

"I think you've saved me enough for one day." She lazily smirks over her shoulder at him. "But thank you."

With her hand on the doorknob and her purse strung across her chest, MJ looks back at him again. He seems to be lingering, that same perplexing silence stretching between them where she wonders, endlessly, what face could be beneath the mask. What person takes care of _him_ in the middle of the night? Who does he go home to? Why does he care to dedicate his life to heroism, instead of fame, power, and money? Surely a man, with _whatever_ it is that he has, can do something more than rescue strangers all day, especially with all the endless backlash for it that he endures.

Yet here he is, walking a perfect stranger to her front door. Just to make sure that she's safe.

"Goodnight, Mary Jane," he finally says, and flings himself back into the air.

MJ stands on her front porch, watching him disappear into the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

_It's two days after Gwen's funeral and he's spent the last few hours pacing around his bedroom like some sort of caged animal. Frantic. Wild. Listless. Aunt May has come to check on him every few hours, asking him if he's hungry, if he needs anything. She's afraid for him, he knows, but he only wants to be left alone._

_Peter assumes it's her again when he hears a knock, but it's not until a head of fire-red hair peaks itself through the door crack that he realizes it's not._

Mary Jane Watson _. He stares at her through red-rimmed eyes._

_There is an awkward silence before she speaks, tentatively taking a step inside his room and he wonders fleetingly if May has sent her here or if she's come all on her own._

" _I... I heard about Gwen." MJ starts._ _He sets his jaw. The sound of her name is like a punch directly to the gut._ _"I feel really bad, Peter, and I just wanted to-"_

" _You? 'Feel bad'?" Peter cuts her off with a vicious snap, feeling misplaced anger bubbling up inside him. It doesn't have anything to do with MJ, not really, but he can't control it. "When's the last time you thought about anyone but yourself?" He scoffs. "Don't make me laugh."_

_Mary Jane visibly flinches at his tone and he would feel bad if he weren't so furious all of a sudden. All he wants in that moment is to lash out, at somebody,_ anybody _. The tension that's built up in his body over the last few days is coiling like a spring. It's not fair. None of this is fair. "Really, what the hell do you know about it, MJ? Get out of here, now."_

_Peter looks over at the picture on his desk, of Gwen curled into his chest as they make goofy faces at the camera. He slams the frame down, hearing the satisfying crack of glass shattering as it hits the wooden surface. He doesn't realize until he feels the wetness on his face that he'd been blinking back tears._

_MJ doesn't leave._

_She shuts the door behind her, sits resolutely on his bedroom floor, and waits. Peter doesn't remember how long it takes him to give in, how many drawers he slams, walls he punches, how many harsh words escape his mouth. All he remembers is finally letting go, collapsing on the ground next to her. He falls asleep like that, head in his hands, their sides pressed together._

_When he wakes up the next morning, she is gone._

* * *

There was a time when Peter Parker hated the idea of being Spider-man; it was in the months following Gwen Stacy's death (over a year ago now, though somehow it seems like longer) when he did nothing but drag himself lifelessly to his classes at Empire State, sit uselessly at her headstone in the cemetery, and sleep his weekends away until Monday came around again. Rinse and repeat. Back then, he couldn't bring himself to put on the mask. The freedom that he used to feel, that invincibility, had been replaced entirely with an insurmountable guilt. Being Spider-man was suffocating then.

He can't pinpoint exactly when that had changed, somewhere between watching Gwen's graduation speech and taking down the Rhino, he'd realized that being Spider-man was the only thing that still gave him purpose. Gave him _hope._

Now he spends his nights at the mercy of his police scanner, sometimes not making it home until the sky is streaked with pink and yellow and he knows his Aunt will be getting up any minute for her rounds at the hospital. Peter doesn't sleep much anymore but he tries his best to come in and out of his bedroom window, hoping it'll keep May from worrying so much if she thinks he's stayed in all night.

He shouldn't be surprised when he comes lumbering down the stairs in the afternoon and Mary Jane Watson is sitting at his kitchen table. Aunt May is fretting over her in her classic motherly fashion, surrounded by gauze, band-aids and something that looks like a bottle of peroxide.

"Peter Parker, are you just getting out of bed?" May chides with her back to him, but she almost sounds happy about it and he doesn't correct her.

"I was up late working on a paper," he says, grabbing an apple off the counter and taking a too-big bite. "Gotta earn you that 'honor student' bumper sticker."

For a brief second, he locks eyes with Mary Jane but she looks away immediately. He wonders if she's a little uncomfortable with him being in the room while Aunt May fixes her up and then he remembers that he's not really supposed to know how she got hurt in the first place. They haven't spoken in months but rescuing her the night before was still the first time Spider-man has had to save someone from _Peter Parker'_ s life. It's strange to think about the two of them as separate entities so he shakes the thought away, watching Aunt May and MJ instead. Wondering if Mary Jane had acted tougher than she is last night, or if she really is okay.

"So what happened here?" he asks after a beat and hears MJ hiss when Aunt presses a damp cotton ball to the scrape on her forehead.

"I fell down some stairs," MJ says, like it's just that simple, "You know, clumsy me."

Peter wants to respond, wants to pointedly tell her that if she's going to lie she shouldn't pick the most cliched excuse for unexplained injuries there is. "Hmm," he says noncommittally instead, looking away before she can see the face he's making.

Soon after, Aunt May bans him from the kitchen for getting in the way and Peter tries not to think about the times so many years ago, when he and MJ were friends, drawing messages to each other in their fogged up bedroom windows and bumping shoulders on the way to the bus stop.

* * *

"Mr. Jameson, listen. I really think-" Peter is cut off as one of the reporters from the Bugle is motioned into the office. He can feel a head ache coming on as he slumps back into his chair.

"Brock, we've got an old guy robbing banks with wings strapped to his back and you're bringing me powder-puff pieces on _some soup kitchen opening up in Queens_? 'Nursing home escape; Big Bird terrorizes city'," J. Jonah Jameson says, articulating each word like he's reading it off a marquee and using his hands in a grandeur fashion to reiterate it. "What am I paying you for?"

Either Peter hasn't been working here long enough, or maybe he just hasn't learned that arguing with Jameson is a waste of time, because Brock only starts to respond for a moment before snapping his mouth shut, appearing to think better of it.

"And add something in there about Spider-man driving the getaway car-"

Peter immediately jerks forward in his seat. "Mr. Jameson, that's exactly why I'm here. You're printing all this stuff about Spider-man and half of it doesn't even make sense. I was thinking-"

Jameson interrupts again by snatching his office phone to his ear. Peter hears the secretary on the other line greet him, the older woman who always gives him his _'fair waged'_ checks. "Beatrice, remind me, when did we start paying Parker to think?"

Peter rolls his eyes as Jameson slams the phone back down. "That's not what I-"

"You should be more like Ethan over here, Parker," Jameson says, sticking an unlit cigar in his mouth as he turns his attention back to the front page layout on his desk. "Less talking, more making me money."

"It's Eddie, sir," the reporter says, but the interjection sounds mostly halfhearted.

After a few moments, Jameson looks back up at them like he can't remember why they're still here. "What're you two waiting for? A tea party? Get out."

Eddie follows Peter out of the office and he looks about as beaten down as Peter feels. If the Bugle wasn't the only paper in town that pays him for his pictures of Spider-man without asking too many questions, Peter would've stopped coming back months ago. He can't imagine how miserable someone like Eddie Brock must be, being stuck on their payroll and in the same sinking boat.

"Big Bird terrorizes city?" Peter repeats in a mocking tone, just within earshot of the reporter.

Eddie smirks. "Looks more like a vulture to me."

Peter shakes his head and smiles ruefully before pushing through the revolving glass doors and making his way back onto the city streets. _Definitely more like a Vulture_ , he thinks, wishing he didn't know that first-hand.

* * *

That night, the streets are suspiciously silent. Danger seems to come all at once nowadays so he's glad for a break from the madness, but at the same time he's itching to get out there and _do_ something. He keeps checking the time on his phone and somewhere in the back of his mind the image of Mary Jane Watson walking home alone sticks in his thoughts. He can't shake the sinking feeling that it'll happen again, that if she's anything like the girl he knew growing up, she'd be just stubborn enough to think she can walk by herself after nearly getting killed doing it the night before. He thinks about it for a split second longer, turning the images of her getting attacked in his mind, and then he's swinging off towards the diner without looking back.

_No one?_

_No one._

When he gets there, her shift seems to be ending. He can see her collecting her tips from the jar behind the counter and untying her apron, her bright hair coming out of its ponytail like proof that she's had a stressful evening. He stuffs his Spider-man mask in his backpack, throwing on a t-shirt and jacket haphazardly. Now that he's here, he's not exactly sure how he's supposed to explain himself but before he can think too hard about it, she's already on her way out the door and he's running to catch up to her.

"Mary Jane!" he calls and she abruptly turns on her heel, facing him with a bottle of what he can only assume is pepper spray.

They both freeze for a second, Peter with his hands up, surrendering, and MJ staring at him like it's taking her a second to accept that it's him. "It's me. It's Peter Parker."

She drops her arms back to her sides, looking a little embarrassed and Peter feels a pang of guilt for it. "I thought you were- Wait. Why are you here?" she asks, eyes narrowing suspiciously. Her words have an alternate meaning, Peter feels. He's come to the diner before, but he can't remember the last time he'd come for _her,_ let alone addressed her personally. Her suspicions almost say, _Why are you talking to me?_

"Aunt May needed me to pick up her paycheck from the diner," he says, because it's the first thing that pops into his head.

MJ crosses her arms over her chest, pulling the rest of her red hair out of her ponytail and flicking it over her shoulder. "At one o'clock in the morning?"

"She really likes online shopping? It's an addiction, you know. It's really serious," he says and then in the same beat, "Was that pepper spray?"

"Maybe." The way she says it, placing the can carefully back into her bag, he decides not to question her further.

There's an awkward moment where Peter isn't exactly sure what to say. He opens his mouth and then closes it. MJ gives him a look, almost like he's grown another head, before she begins walking again. Peter follows because not doing so would defeat the entire purpose of him swinging across town to get there in the first place, but a part of him feels a little dumb. She's ignoring his existence, and he's just trailing after her like an idiot. But he keeps going, silently, the only noise the clicking of her heels on the pavement and the screeching of brakes somewhere in the distance.

He clears his throat. "So, how's life? It's been...awhile."

Mary Jane raises her eyebrows, but he sees the corner of her mouth turn up like she's fighting back a smile. Possibly because phrasing it like that is a little absurd under the circumstances. Either way, she humors him which is all he can ask for.

"Things are good. Uneventful." He doesn't know why he's expecting her to bring up Spider-man and the night before, but he supposes being flown home by a masked superhero in red and blue spandex might just be all in a day's work for Mary Jane Watson. "I've gotten a few callbacks for some minor roles in things and my head shots turned out really well, so..."

Peter grins. "Remember when you played Dorothy in the school play?" It feels like so long ago, but the memory is still clear in his mind. The red sparkly shoes that nearly matched her hair, the captivating way she held the audience in her palm, never sputtering or tripping over her lines.

"How could I forget? Flash had to play Toto so that he didn't flunk Drama and he followed me around in a dog costume for a month straight."

Peter remembers that and he's pretty sure that was around the same time MJ started dating Flash, but he doesn't mention it. The thought brings him back to graduation, and a memory of Flash excitedly telling Gwen he'd gotten into college, a throwback to her ceaseless hours of tutoring. Peter swallows hard and forces himself to bury the memory. He doesn't realize they've fallen back into silence until MJ snaps him out of it.

"Why'd you really come here tonight?"

Peter pauses for a second before responding. "Didn't want you to fall down any stairs on your way home," he says, somewhat pointedly, kicking a rock down the sidewalk with the sole of his Converse sneaker. He glances at her from the corner of his eye, trying to read her expression. He can't read her as well as he used to, and the thought of it makes him feel strange - as if time had simply snaked by without him noticing.

"It was just some muggers. They wanted my purse," she says with a nonchalant shrug. "It wasn't a big deal."

There's a lot Peter wants to say to that but he can't without sounding like he knows more than he does. Instead he sighs. "We were friends once, right?" The look she gives him at the question is skeptical, but he doesn't stop to analyze it. "I can walk you home from work and all I need is a thank you. So...you're welcome."

"I don't need you to protect me, Peter," she says, and then there's a mischievous glint in her eye. "Not that you could. Remember dodge ball in middle school-"

He cuts her off, the tips of his ears reddening as he remembers the pride of being the last man standing on his team and then catching a ball straight to the face. MJ is laughing though, and something about that laughter warms him.

"Better yet, forget the thank you. Sneak me a piece of pie next time I'm at the diner. And let's never talk about middle school gym class, _ever_ again."

She's still laughing at him and it continues like that until they've reached the fence between their houses. Peter can't remember the last time they walked home together from anything. He's sure he was wearing light up sneakers, carrying a backpack full of addition and subtraction homework, and Mary Jane had multicolored bows in her hair, sporting kittens on her neon t-shirt. It's kind of surreal, to walk with her now. A woman in a diner uniform, a hero with a mask in his backpack. They're worlds away from where they used to be.

There's an awkward moment when he's not exactly sure how this is supposed to end. She's already walking down the walkway to her front porch, and Peter almost follows her before thinking better of it. Instead, he only hesitates for a brief moment before heading towards his own front door.

"Peter?" he hears MJ call from across the way, just before he goes inside. His eyes snap up to meet hers, expectantly. "Thanks."

He smiles a little, nodding as he watches her disappear into the house.


	3. Chapter 3

MJ spends too much of her time thinking about Peter Parker the next few days, like an unavoidable alarm in her brain that goes off every hour. She thinks about the way his hair has only gotten more unruly as he's aged, like a bed of weeds that's never been pulled, and she tells herself that it's stupid hair, really, and that he ought to get a haircut, but she knows that she'd be upset if he did. She thinks about his stupid scuffed up sneakers, his even rattier backpack, and those big doe eyes that seize her up like he has the right to, like he still knows her. Like he hadn't spent the better part of high school ignoring her the way she decidedly ignored him, or the past year hating her for reasons she'd tried again and again to understand. She'd wanted to hold Peter's hand back then, when Gwen passed away – just like he'd held MJ's hand when her mother lost her fight to cancer. She can still feel his fingers squeezing hers, reminding her that he would always try to be strong when she couldn't be.

The memory almost makes her sneer.

There's their fizzled friendship, and several arguments in between, but the thing that makes her the most angry, she supposes, is that MJ had cared for Gwen, too. She'd been the only girl MJ had ever considered a friend (MJ never seemed to get along well with other girls, no matter how hard she tried) and she would always check up on MJ, even during the time that Gwen dated Peter – ironically enough. Gwen was the ray of sunshine that always said hello in the hallways, and the kind heart that stood up for her in the fifth grade, when everyone started calling MJ the 'heat miser' and making teasing remarks about the red mop that sat on top of her head.

" _I think your hair is gorgeous, Mary Jane,_ " she'd said at recess. " _Don't let anyone tell you any different._ "

And now that MJ has a few scrapes and bruises on her face (though thankfully, the bruises on her ribs are quite hidden) Peter thinks it's okay to just... talk to her again? Walk her home in the middle of the night, like it's perfectly normal behavior? When part of her feels some sort of resentment towards him, for not being available or _approachable_ enough to ask him to walk her home the night she actually _needed_ him to? It feels unfair, and she wants to be angry with him for some reason. For the times she wasn't his childhood friend anymore, the times she looked at him and he didn't look back, the times she tried to open up to him and he shut her out, and the very last time when he screamed at her to get the hell away from him.

She never did tell him that when he fell asleep that night, pressed against her side, she'd sat there and let herself cry for the first time in a long time. For her mother, for who her father had become, for Peter's Uncle Ben who had always been so kind to her, for _Gwen_.

She's thinking about these things when her name gets called to audition, and it's super embarrassing when the girl sitting next to her has to nudge her side to get her attention.

" _Number 47, Mary Jane Watson?!"_

"Yes! Yes," MJ quickly shoots up from her seat, raising her hand like she's back in school. "That's me."

The woman with the clipboard narrows her eyes and stares at her like she's vermin beneath her stiletto. The bun on her head is so strict and tight that it looks like she got a face lift in the process of getting her hair to do that, and the entire style makes MJ's head hurt to look at.

"Well... are you planning to audition or not, Miss Watson?" Her tone is sarcastic enough that a few of the girls snicker behind MJ.

"Yes ma'am," is all MJ says, tilting her chin up.

The woman pauses, eyeing her head to toe. The look on her face is unimpressed, but MJ doesn't falter beneath it. She's used to it by now. "Then follow me."

MJ's handed a script for _Wizard of Oz,_ and she nearly bursts out laughing at the irony, holding a rendition of the play Peter had just mentioned remembering her star in. And then she's thinking about him again, and as she leaves the building after her audition, she's fairly certain she botched the entire read through because she can't remember a single thing that happened in there.

_Stupid Peter Parker._

* * *

Two days later, after another late shift at the diner, Peter is there again. Merely waiting for her outside the doors as if he belongs there, and she feels an overwhelming flood of relief. And it isn't because she'd been scared to walk home alone again. No, that isn't it at all. Despite the fact that she'd told herself she'd be rude on principle the next time she saw him, all MJ can feel now is an ease in her breathing and a release in her tense shoulders at his proximity.

She walks towards him slowly, and there's a little flutter in her chest that she can't really place. He's here. He's here, again.

"Hi," he casually says, pushing off the brick wall he'd been leaning on.

"Hi," MJ reciprocates before biting her bottom lip, nervously. She's almost afraid that he can see all the thoughts pouring out of her brain, but then she remembers that he doesn't know her as well as he used to. Back when he finished her sentences, and she picked the things he didn't like off of his cafeteria sandwich without him even having to ask. "Aunt May's online shopping addiction?..."

"Rare lawn gnomes? She's starting a collection. It's a thing."

MJ tries really hard not to smile, but it gets the best of her. "Lawn gnomes. Hmm." Neither of them point out the fact that Peter never actually walks inside of the diner, nor the fact that May doesn't have a check to be picked up, either, and that's okay with MJ.

She starts walking then, habitually, and Peter keeps in stride with her easily. She quickly and absolutely forgets all the reasons why she felt so angry at him before – mostly because her reasons were mostly out of confusion. _Why does he care now?_ And, furthermore, _Why do I?_

"So... why is the math book always upset?" Peter says, peering over at her as they walk. MJ realizes she has to tilt her head up at him a little – he's a pair of shoulders, a neck, and a head taller. When did that happen?

"What?"

"Why is the math book always upset?" he repeats, and she realizes this is the beginning of a joke.

MJ purses her lips. "I don't know?"

"Because it has a lot of problems," his lips quirk into a mischievous little grin, like he's oh so clever, and MJ helplessly lets out a chuckle.

"You're..." she doesn't have time to think of a word because she bumps hands with him accidentally. It's already weird enough when it happens, but it becomes embarrassing when Peter widens the berth between them, clucking his tongue a bit awkwardly. Is it really that horrible to touch her? She resides to folding her arms against her chest, making it clear she won't let it happen again. She's being a bit petulant, but Peter is so aloof – she's frustrated, trying to figure him out. MJ steers her thoughts back to conversation. "I sound like a math book."

Peter's thick eyebrows furrow as she steals a glance over at him, thoughts going a million miles an hour. Who is Peter Parker now? What has the death of Uncle Ben and Gwen Stacy done to him, this adult, college student Peter? The one that walks her home in the middle of the night, but cowers at her proximity?

"Problems?" He pauses, seeming to turn this information over. "Nothing Mary Jane Watson couldn't solve."

She thinks about money, her deceased mother, her sister, Gayle, in Philadelphia, her Aunt Anna, her father, and the short list of callbacks on her answering machine. "My solutions aren't exactly getting me anywhere, Peter."

"We're still young," he says, as if it's just that simple. "You have plenty of time to be the next Audrey Hepburn or Marilyn Monroe, or, I don't know, whoever actresses people idolize."

MJ gives a smile. "Totally an Audrey."

Peter smiles back. "I'll take your word for it."

There's a short pause between them before MJ realizes she knows very little about his life now. He mentioned working on a paper a few days back, when Aunt May fixed her up, so she assumes he's in college now – probably acing all of his classes, never missing a lecture but never on time for one either. She knows he's into photography, too, given his involvement with the newspaper, but she doesn't know much else.

"What about you? I've seen your pictures of Spider-man in the Bugle," she says, remembering the masked hero offering his hand to help her to her feet. His easy laughter, his sarcastic jokes, and the way he paused at her front door, as if he wasn't sure he should leave her there or not. It's strange for her to feel connected to something that's more symbol than man.

"Yeah? What did you think?"

"He has to be so young, don't you think? The way he talks, how simple everything seems to him. I don't get why he does it," MJ says, lost in her thoughts.

Peter looks over at her, a strange expression on his face. "I meant the pictures," he says, and then continues. "But I take it you've met him? Spider-man?"

MJ's cheeks get a little red as she looks away, counting the cracks in the sidewalk to avoid his gaze. It felt weird, admitting to anyone that she's met such a local 'celebrity'. The masked vigilante, streamed across all of New York City like a poster child for the Big Apple.

"Oh," she says, and then has a long pause, realizing that Peter is still expecting an answer. "Yeah... yes, I've met him."

Peter musses his dark locks before shoving his hands deep in his jean pockets. Why is this moment so awkward? He doesn't even ask how or why it happened, just, "What did you mean before? When you said that you don't get why he does it?"

MJ considers this for a minute, looking up into the night sky as if she'll see him streak across it, swinging like _Tarzan_ to his next rescue. "It has to be painful. Doing so many good things and never getting the recognition you deserve. Being publicly shamed for vigilantism even though it's clear that this city needs him. Doesn't seem fair."

There's this long glance between them, probably the longest one MJ has let Peter have with her since they were younger. She doesn't know why that is – why she's always turned her head, avoided his gaze, or locked her eyes away from his. But she lets him look at her now, emerald crashing on earth, and for the first time in years, she feels like they're connected. Like, she doesn't have to say anything else for the rest of the night because Peter will understand.

"You think the city needs him?" Peter finally asks her.

"Don't you, Peter?"

When he doesn't say anything, MJ let's that topic die, wondering what he's really thinking about. It can't be Spider-man that has his talkative kick dwindling, can it?

"Peter, why are you doing this? Really. I thought..." MJ stops herself, almost thinking better of it. But she can't, she's been stewing on it for too long, so she stops walking abruptly and blurts out, "I thought you hated me."

Peter stops walking too then, turning to face her now. They're almost home, but for some reason, MJ can't bring herself to walk any further without knowing the answer. And he's cornered now – he can't just avoid it.

"I don't hate you. I've never hated you, MJ." His voice is low, coated with apology, and MJ feels a flare of anger again. The one she almost forgot that she'd had earlier. She can't stop herself from being so inexplicably frustrated with him, for teetering back and forth on friendship and care for her.

"You said _terrible_ things to me. I haven't forgotten them, Peter."

He lets out a long breath, looking down at her with his big brown eyes. Unshielded by glasses now, she can really see them. Really feel how much they penetrate. "I haven't, either. And I'm sorry," he says, shifting his weight uncomfortably. "I didn't mean any of it. I just wasn't... I was..."

"I know," she finishes for him, because she really does know. Gwen died. Gwen is dead. MJ remembered seeing his face in the hallway when Gwen held his hand, or stole kisses by his locker in between classes. It'd been Gwen who picked the things he didn't like off of his sandwich, Gwen who knew his darkest secrets, Gwen who walked straight up to him the day Peter returned to school, after Uncle Ben had died, and embraced him the way that MJ only wished she'd had the courage for. He'd loved her more than anything, and MJ knows that. She knows how deep death cuts into your heart, sucking out the parts that make you feel for anything or anyone else.

She knows.

Peter nods, fumbling with the sleeves of his blue and red flannel shirt. "I just want to walk you home. When there's no one else to do it."

 _No one._ She'd said that to Spider-man days ago, and meant it. Because MJ isn't used to there being someone to walk her home, to make sure that she's okay. She isn't used to _needing_ anyone, not anymore. Not when she decided, so long ago, that no one ever stays, and if they do, they must have ulterior motives.

"Why?" she challenges him now, watching his face for any falter, any give away.

He looks as honest as he's ever been. The Peter who could never lie, not without it sounding like the most ridiculous thing in the entire world. "It's not wrong of you to need someone, MJ." And then his eyes snap to the sky almost immediately, staring up into the darkness. "It's about to rain."

"How do you –" she doesn't have time to finish, because the rain begins to pour, like buckets falling from the clouds. " _Ah_!" MJ squeals with a start, running the last stretch towards their houses with Peter trailing behind her.

She hears him laughing, jovially and freely, something she hasn't heard in a very long time and it triggers something inside of MJ. It feels like winter evenings, curled up on Aunt May's couch with hot cocoa while Uncle Ben told cheesy jokes and exaggerated stories from his childhood. It feels like spring afternoons, sitting on a skateboard, Peter pushing her down the sidewalk like a makeshift roller coaster. It feels like secrets, and pinky promises, trying so hard not to laugh at notes they passed in class but couldn't help the snickering. It feels like home.

When they reach their paired houses, entirely soaked, MJ yells at him, "Come inside!" before running up to her front door and fumbling for her keys, finally getting it open. When she walks inside, she finally looks back to Peter, who comes in behind her. His hair is dripping, sticking to his skin in a wet puppy kind of way, and his flannel is drenched and clinging to his body, revealing his form a bit better. Since when did Peter Parker have... muscles?

"You look..." He starts, choking back laughter, "like hell."

MJ smacks his chest halfheartedly, shocked at how firm it is. He used to be this lanky little thing, and now? "And you look like a wet dog, Mr. Chivalry." She sets her purse aside, shrugging off the jacket she's been wearing instead of the ruined pea coat. "Come on, I'll give you something to wear."

"You know..." Peter says, following her deeper into the house, "that I _do_ live right next door?"

MJ tries not to pay attention to the broken beer bottles, the piling mess, and the overall _empty_ feeling of her house. She'd almost forgotten that she had something to be embarrassed about when she invited him inside, but it's too late now. She was just so focused on getting out of the rain before, and...

"Do you have something better to do?" she asks in response, keeping her tone light and teasing. She says it instead of what she's thinking, ' _I don't really want you to go yet_ ', and she's thankful for her back being turned to him. She doesn't want to see his expression, and she's almost relieved when he doesn't reply. She hears his footsteps continue to follow her, and it's reassuring.

After he's changed into a t-shirt and sweatpants (admittedly clothes she'd had of his since freshman year - they're both a bit snug and small on him now) and MJ has put on a tank top and soffe shorts, they sit on her fraying living room couch with mugs of hot peppermint tea in their hands. Peter's chestnut hair is drying in a messier disarray than usual, and MJ's is still wet and in a dark burgundy braid, slung over one shoulder. It's gotten quite long, lying on her ribcage, but she doesn't have the heart to cut it. Peter surprises MJ by tugging on it now, a bit absentmindedly, as he animatedly talks to her.

Like they never stopped being Peter Parker and Mary Jane Watson.

For some reason, it makes MJ ache.

Somewhere between finishing their tea, talking about Aunt Anna's famous Thanksgiving apple turnovers, and Peter's cooky Lit professor, MJ nods off, her head against Peter's chest. He doesn't quite hold her, not exactly, but he makes sure that his body is adjusted just so at all times - to keep her comfortable, rested against him. When MJ wakes up in the middle of the night, she's wrapped securely in a quilt her mother made, and Peter is gone.

She doesn't see him for over a week after that.


	4. Chapter 4

Peter hasn't seen MJ in a little over a week and it feels weird after so many days in a row of walking her home. He tells himself that it had only been to make sure she was getting home safely, and it's obvious now that the thugs have gotten the hint. He tells himself he can always swing by to check on her when he's doing patrols at night so physically walking her home isn't really necessary.

The reality is that he's just too stubborn to admit that he's been avoiding her.

Yes, they were friends once. But sitting back on her couch, MJ's head against his chest as she dozed off, it was just way too easy to let himself feel things that he shouldn't. He could pretend that everything was simple, the way it was before. The reality now is that nothing in his life is simple anymore. Not with his mask in his backpack, and the police scanner on his desk. He's already learned the lesson of inviting personal leisure into this life. He won't let himself need that lesson again.

He tries not to see blonde hair, falling further and further from his reach.

Still, he can't argue with the part of himself that misses seeing MJ. Their quick banter back and forth, the way she would smile at him with that devious glint in her emerald eyes when she was teasing, how she was the only one who had no problem calling him out when he was wrong, and _enjoyed_ doing it just as much. Aunt May used to laugh at them, say they fought like cats and dogs sometimes, both too headstrong for their own good. He misses that, too.

Peter can blame that entire train of thought for why he's walking into the diner that morning, if anyone asks. Even if in reality, he does have an excuse. Aunt May is picking up a shift there, so he can say he's just visiting like he always used to, coming to snag a doughnut and grab a free cup of coffee. If he doesn't think about it too hard, it doesn't sound totally pathetic. Not at all. It doesn't sound like he's making up whatever possible excuse he can just to see her, even for a split second.

The look Aunt May gives him when he comes shuffling in, swinging his bag over one of the stools at the counter, is happy but also a little knowing.

"Don't you have school today?" she asks, eyebrows raised as she refills the two cups of soda on her tray.

"What, I can't visit my favorite Aunt between lectures?" Peter responds with an easy grin, and then, "I just got back. All learned up." He taps a finger to his temple to accentuate his point and Aunt May smiles and shakes her head at him as she heads back to one of her tables.

The truth is, he's missed a few classes over the last week and he's got a pile of projects to do on his desk at home. It's just hard to focus on those things when his nights have been spent swinging around the city looking for a man with metal wings whose favorite past times seem to be robbing banks and injuring innocent civilians. It's becoming a juggling act that he's not very good at.

Peter's thoughts are cut short when the bell above the diner door chimes. Reflexively he turns to see who's coming in and before he realizes who it is, he's locking eyes with MJ. Her expression at seeing him is hard to read but he'd place it somewhere between surprise and annoyance. She flicks her braided hair over her shoulder and walks behind the counter like he's not even there.

Touche.

"Hi," Peter says, before he can stop himself, watching her rummage behind the counter for her uniform.

"Hi," MJ responds back, tying her apron around her miniature waist a little rougher than usual and he's definitely not imagining the shortness in her tone.

"How've you been?"

MJ gives him a look that he can't quite decipher. He finds himself wishing desperately that could know her like he used to. "Fantastic," she deadpans.

Peter deflates a little as she walks away, sinking back in his chair. After a beat, he reaches forward to grab a chocolate chip muffin out of the display case on the counter and Aunt May smacks his hand away as she passes by. Her look is chastising and Peter is pretty sure this is not his day.

He spends another hour or so there, keeping Aunt May company. Eventually with enough guilt-tripping, she gives in and sneaks him a doughnut and a hot chocolate. While he sips it, he tries not to watch MJ while she works, wondering if she's mad at him or if he's just over-thinking everything. After the third time she meets his eyes from across the room, he decides it's time to leave before he embarrasses himself any further.

He passes MJ on his way out, but she doesn't seem to notice and he doesn't say good-bye.

* * *

Peter had been waiting almost a week for anything on the Vulture to come through on his police scanner. He's on the other side of the city when the call finally comes in: a bank heist that's left two security guards seriously injured and an escape attempt that's tearing up the Roosevelt Island Bridge.

When he gets there, he's immediately surrounded by chaos. He doesn't see the Vulture anywhere, all that's left is a path of destruction and he spends a good ten minutes swinging in and out of stopped traffic, helping people to safety.

A section of the bridge is severely damaged; a large delivery truck having smashed through the side leaving a gaping hole where a handful of beams should have been. As he swings by, he sees a mini-van teetering over the edge and lands just in time to shoot a web at the hood before it topples over the side. He tries to keep himself steady, shooting another web across the road onto a rail that looks sturdy enough to hold it.

Almost immediately, the rail breaks away from the pavement. His body falls forward with nothing to hold the weight of the van and he slams into an exposed bit of concrete and cables. A jagged piece of metal punctures through his arm, a big enough gash that any normal person would need several sets of stitches. Peter barely winces, too focused on keeping himself steady.

His eyes snap up and there's a girl standing next to where the rail had been. She's young, can't be more than 20 years old, and the look on her face is one of pure terror. Peter can't get to her in time, he knows it as the edge of the bridge she's standing on begins to crumble, but it doesn't keep him from trying. He shoots a web from his right wrist, his left still holding up the mini-van as it continues to slide slowly over the edge.

As he looks down, he sees faces inside the van, a young boy eyes wide while his sister cries beside him. Their mother is as white as a sheet behind the wheel, frozen in fear and he knows he can't let them go. They're depending on him and if he swings to save the girl now, none of them will make it.

It all happens in seconds.

The web from his right wrist is off target and hits a guard rail, the girl topples over the edge and all he sees is a halo of auburn hair before she's out of his line of sight. There's so much going on, people shouting and running to get out of the fray, but her scream still seems to echo in his ears.

He realizes it's the first time in over a year that he's lost someone he should have been able to save. An image of Gwen falling flashes in his mind, the second time in two days, and he feels nauseousness overtake him.

Peter forces the thoughts away. He needs to stay focused on securing the van and getting the passengers to safety. He pulls them up, slow and steady until they're back on solid ground. The little boy clings to him when he's finally lifted to the pavement and his mother is hysterically repeating the words "thank you" over and over in a frantic mantra.

Everything else is a blur. The police get to the scene and do their best to evacuate the bridge. An officer comes running up, frazzled and out of breath. Peter is exhausted, mentally and physically, too exhausted to be snarky as Spider-man usually would. "There was a girl. She fell over the edge," he shouts over the sirens. "See if you can find her." The officer nods and immediately does as he's told, sprinting off into the distance. For once the police seem thankful for his assistance instead of shooting at his back.

Peter can almost see the Bugle headline now. ' _Spider-man causes bridge chaos; NYPD aids his escape_ '.

He wants to focus on finding the Vulture and his cronies but after a quick sweep of the area, he knows they are long gone. He sees a group of officers scouring the river banks looking for anyone who may have fallen and survived. There are boats coming in from the distance to search the water. Too many people are being loaded into ambulances as Peter swings over them and he just doesn't have it in him to stick around.

Suddenly out of the corner of his vision, Peter sees a figure dressed in black who immediately takes to the sky. At first he thinks it's the Vulture, until he realizes the figure isn't flying, it's swinging. On the ground where the figure once was, the girl from the bridge is standing. He makes his way down to her, thinking for a brief second that his eyes might be playing tricks on him.

She is clearly shaken but very much alive when he lands at her side.

"Are you okay?" he asks, holding out on arm to steady her. The girl looks fine, not a scratch on her that Peter can see. He can't express how relieved he is to see her, this stranger he was sure couldn't be saved.

"She caught me," the girls says, sounding far away, almost as if she still can't believe it happened. "And she said to tell you 'you're welcome'."

* * *

It's one o'clock in the morning before Peter is able to head for home. His head is spinning, half thinking about ways he can get one step ahead of the Vulture and half thinking about the mysterious figure and where she came from. If it's even a she. The girl from the bridge hadn't made much sense and Peter was more inclined to get her to an ambulance for a check-up after her free-fall than stand around asking her a bunch of questions.

Still, he'd like to know where all these people are coming from. He'd make a joke about the circus being in town but he can't exactly talk when he's the one who seems to have started the trend.

Peter sighs, running a hand through his hair and he doesn't even react when he pulls it away and there's blood left behind on his fingertips. His whole body aches, he's got a pretty nasty gash on his arm too, one that only finally just stopped bleeding, so what's another head wound?

He's already back in his street clothes, suit tucked safely away in his backpack when he gets to his street. It's so late, he doesn't expect to hear shouting as he passes Mary Jane's house and it stops him in his tracks.

_"This place is a sty! I work all day just to come home to this shit?"_

Peter hears the shattering of glass, a vase or maybe a dish breaking.

_"Dad, it's the middle of the night. Everyone can hear you-"_

_"Let them hear me! They should know what an ungrateful bitch I've got living in this house."_

Peter has heard them fighting before, more times than he can count, but standing there now, every muscle in his body tenses. He has to force himself to remain calm, not to accidentally crush the plank of wooden fence beneath his hands. Mary Jane's voice when she responds, even muffled through the house, is strong. She sounds like an adult talking to a child, not her age at all and without an ounce of fear.

_"Don't you dare call me that. You've been at the bar since 3 o'clock this afternoon. I've been at work, waiting tables so maybe our electricity won't get shut off for the third month in a row. Don't even start with me. Don't."_

Her father doesn't even let her finish her sentence before he's shouting again, more glass is breaking and Peter is standing there stupidly when MJ comes running out of the house. The door slams behind her.

Their eyes meet almost immediately and he sees a flash of what he guesses is embarrassment before her resolve takes over.

"How long have you been standing there?"

"Uh..." he trails off, racking his brain for any response that doesn't equate to 'I've been eavesdropping outside your house for the last fifteen minutes and I'd like to punch your dad in the face'. He falters before speaking again. "I just got home," he says lamely.

MJ looks upset and he doesn't know if it's at him, her father, the situation or a combination of all three. She walks towards him like she's ready to give him a piece of her mind, sure and quick steps with her chin strong and jutted out. When they were younger, he always found it funny when she went off on him. She'd be accusing him of cheating as the banker in Monopoly, red face, red hair, like a firecracker ready to explode, and he'd be trying so hard not to crack up that it only made her angrier at him. This time though, he's not laughing.

She stops in front of him and all at once her expression completely changes.

"You're... bleeding," she says, green eyes snapping up to meet his. She looks so worried, all traces of her previous anger having drained from her face. Internally, he flinches.

"I'm fine." He answers quickly, keeping his tone light while he tries to wipe away the blood from his forehead with the back of his sleeve, as pointless as that is now. MJ stands up on her tip-toes to get a better look at the cut and for a brief second, leans on his arm for support. Peter winces before he can stop himself. _'Definitely not all the way healed yet._ ' MJ moves her hand away like she's been burned.

"You are _so_ not fine." She says it accusingly, and he knows the flare is stemming from how frightened she is. And though he's injured, he finds himself wanting to protect _her_ instead of the other way around.

"I was skateboarding, fell down the half pipe. Not a big deal."

For a second, Peter thinks she's just going to accept his excuse and move on but then he remembers who he's talking to.

Her expression is incredulous when she responds. "Okay well, it's two o'clock in the morning and you don't even have your skateboard."

Peter looks away, shaking his head. He's not good at lying, never has been. Since becoming Spider-man he's had to do it so often that he barely thinks about it anymore but usually that's just to Aunt May and she rarely tends to question him. He appreciates that when making up elaborate stories is still not something he likes doing.

"Maybe I fell down some stairs," Peter finally says, reciting the same words she'd said to him in his kitchen over a week ago. "You know, clumsy me."

Mary Jane crosses her arms over her chest, purses her lips but says nothing. To his credit, he does his best to look innocent.

They fall into a silence after that. Peter wonders what she's thinking about. Her house has fallen quiet, her father probably passed out somewhere inside, and all he hears is the sound of a car honking in the distance.

"I've been looking at apartments in the city," Peter says finally, completely changing the subject. He leans against the fence, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket so he has something to do with his hands. "If you ever need a place to crash..."

He looks over at her and is bothered again that he can't quite read her expression. "Your couch is always open?" she asks and smiles a little.

"If I can afford a couch. Might be the floor for a few months "

She makes a face at that, crinkling up her nose like she's fighting the urge to laugh. Peter tries to keep her talking until he's sure it's okay for her to go inside. She tells him about the audition she went to earlier in the week and he tells her more about his job at the Bugle. She picks on him for his J. Jonah Jameson impression and he pretends to be offended while she laughs at him. It feels good to talk to her again and he's glad that she lets the earlier subject drop - though he does let her wordlessly examine his face with her fingertips, gently urging him to clean himself up before they part ways.

Peter doesn't want to have to lie to her but if he's learned anything in the last few years it's that the truth can hurt more than a lie. And that, more than ever, he needs to keep MJ at a safe distance.


End file.
